The Last Queen Book One

by Odette C. Bell

  It doesn’t make any damn sense.

  No damn sense at all.

  I... I must be losing it.

  That’s it. Too much stress. Too much damn pressure. From that kid dying in my arms last night, to the general sheer horror of what’s been happening to me – I’m losing it.

  So I turn away from that chessboard. Though it takes a hell of a lot of effort to turn from it as it absorbs my attention once more, I clench my teeth and spin on my foot, then head straight for the doors.

  John Rowley is at the counter, talking to two of his receptionists. He is right there – and I’ll probably never get another opportunity like this to sidle up to him and hand over the kid’s message.

  But what the hell am I thinking? That I can just march up to him, tap him on the shoulder, and tell him that the kid he treated like a son died in my arms last night and he wanted me to pass on the message that I was an unattached queen and a war is coming?

  God, I should never have come here.

  My twisted sense of obligation to that kid saw me walk out the door this morning, but my common sense should’ve seen me walk right back in.

  I feel like utter crap – like the world’s biggest fool – as I walk for the doors.

  With my hands in my pockets and my head directed at the ground, I stride past somebody.

  I stop.

  The guy is big, heavyset, and has broad shoulders that push out hard against his T-shirt. He has a cap and sunglasses on, and he’s wearing a utility jacket with the name of a popular delivery company on the back.

  He’s obviously come here to deliver a parcel. So why does he have a gun in his pocket?

  Because he does have a gun in his pocket. I can’t see it through the fabric – I don’t have x-ray vision like Superman. That doesn’t change the fact I just know this guy is armed. This sense wells up and slams into my gut, stopping me on the spot.

  The guy takes one look at John standing at the counter, and the slightest smile spreads across his lips.

  I’m staring at the delivery guy over my shoulder now, still frozen rigid to the spot.

  Hunting the pawns at night is one thing. But this isn’t at night – this is in public. And this guy has a gun.

  I should scream, point that out, and run for cover. I don’t. Can’t.

  I find myself pivoting on my foot and walking toward the guy.

  I find myself reaching out a hand to him. “Hey, excuse me. Do you know the time?” I say.

  The guy has shoved a hand into his pocket, but he arches his head toward me.

  At that exact moment, the doorman from outside yells. He runs through the doors.

  The guy in the delivery jacket acts. He shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out his gun, twisting on his foot as he aims it at John Rowley.

  I act quicker. I round my shoulder, shove it into him, and push him out of the way just as he fires. The bullet slams into the counter a good half a meter from where John is standing.

  Everyone screams as alarms start to power through the building.

  People start to run for the doors.

  Not me.

  I’m still close to the deliveryman.

  He’s on his back, the gun still in his hand, and he launches a kick at my face.

  I dodge out of the way, grab his leg as it jerks past, and pull. Not with all my might – I don’t want to wrench his leg from its socket. It’s enough to keep him off balance as he goes to push up. More than enough for me to roll on top of him, pin his arm down with one hand as he goes to pick up his gun to shoot me, and then I land a punch right on the middle of his jaw.

  Just one punch, and that’s it.

  I knock him out clean.

  For a second, I just sit there, straddled over his torso, realizing what I just did.

  Then someone reaches us. It’s the doorman.

  He goes for the gun just as someone else reaches me. This time it’s John Rowley. In one swift, strong move, he locks an arm around my middle and plucks me off the man, pulling me to my feet and jerking me out of the way.

  He picks me up as if I weigh nothing more than a feather.

  If John is trying to protect me, he needn’t have bothered, because the deliveryman is out cold.

  A fact the doorman confirms as he reaches forward and shakes the deliveryman’s shoulders several times.

  The building is in chaos, but while the 10 reception staff hold their positions, all the tourists run for the doors. At the same time, more security arrives in one of the lifts and spill out, running toward us.

  John needlessly keeps an arm around my middle for several seconds, and I... I just hang there, allowing him to hold me, almost as if I’m an inactive doll he’s just plucked up off the floor.

  “Are you alright? Sir, are you alright?” the doorman stutters.

  John finally releases me, takes a step back, and nods his head hard.

  I stare at him out of the corner of my eye. I don’t turn toward him, though. Don’t move a muscle. I just kind of... stand there, realizing what I’d done.

  I stopped a man from going on a shooting rampage. Or hey, maybe his intended target had only been John Rowley, but it doesn’t matter. Saving people at night from those pawns is one thing – what I did here is something completely different.

  Several suspicious security guards shift toward me, and I wonder if what I’ve done here could be construed as a crime. Maybe they think I somehow know this deliveryman – maybe they think this is all some attempt by me to gain John Rowley’s – the most eligible bachelor in the worlds – attention.

  John clears his throat. “It wasn’t her – the gunman acted alone. She simply disarmed him. Search his pockets. Find out who he works for.”

  “And call the police,” the doorman adds with a pointed cough.

  “Yes, call the police,” John adds after the fact.

  I can feel John’s gaze on me, even if I still kind of stand there all limp and useless, staring at a patch of scuffed floor.

  I hear him clear his throat, feel him shift toward me. “Are you alright, ma’am?”

  Though I just want to whirl on my foot and run away, I know I can’t. I also know I can’t just stand here meekly – I’m already drawing too much attention.

  So I pivot on my foot, turn, and face him. I nod. “When I was walking past that guy, I saw something in his pocket – looked like a gun,” I begin to explain, even though no one has asked me to explain. The excuse just floods out. It is better for me to volunteer my story now than be questioned later.

  “I saw you taking him down,” the doorman says. “You trained?”

  I think quickly. Just how much strength did I use to down that man? Though someone twice my size might be able to knock the guy out with a single punch, I’m relatively small, even for a woman.

  So I think quickly. I shrug. “I guess you could say I am. I don’t work for the police, or anything. I just know self-defense,” I add, hoping it’s a vague enough lie that no one will be able to prove it wrong.

  The doorman looks impressed and nods again. “Thank you, ma’am. If it weren’t for your quick thinking...” he trails off.

  I can still feel John Rowley’s gaze on the back of my neck. It’s at once the most unpleasant thing in the world, and yet it sends the tightest of nerves driving hard into my gut. The kind of quick, hot, tingling sensations you would only feel around a lover – not someone you’d never met before.

  I clench my teeth and try to tell myself to keep it together.

  “What’s your name?” the doorman asks.

  I stiffen a little.

  “You’re going to need to sign a police report,” he explains.

  Shit. Of course I am. Not only have I just knocked a guy out, but I saved goddamn John Rowley in his own building. I offer a wincing kind of smile. “Kara Khan,” I manage.

  “Thanks again, Kara. You ever had to sign a police report before?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s easy enough. And
don’t worry about any recriminations,” he adds as he gestures at the guy, “we’ve got this all on tape.”

  Shit.

  I know I pale at that.

  While the tape will prove that I hadn’t been working with the gunman, what it could also be used to prove is that I have strength a woman of my size should not.

  I glance at the doors on the opposite side of the building, wondering how long it would take for me to reach them at full pelt. Though I have no idea exactly what will happen if I dare to run that fast in front of ordinary people. How long will it take until they call the police, the army? How long will it take until I become the most hunted woman in the world?

  John has walked several steps away from me, and he’s chatting to somebody quietly on his phone. Even though I’m usually good at picking up voices, even if they are far away, he isn’t speaking much, and the phone is pressed so closely to his ear, I can’t hear the voice of the person on the other side.

  I can still feel his gaze locked on the back of my neck, though, and that makes my skin crawl.

  “How long will this take?” I try to ask the doorman casually. “It’s only that I have to work later.”

  “Shouldn’t be more than half an hour. When do you start work?”

  “An hour. I’ve got to cross town, though.”

  The doorman nods. “It’s all right. Considering what you’ve done here, we’ll arrange you a car.”

  I blink hard. “You mean a taxi?”

  “A car,” he supplies smoothly. “Not every day some young lass saves Mr. Rowley.”

  Though the last thing I want is to have anything more to do with John Rowley, I shrug and nod my thanks.

  I cast my nervous glance toward the deliveryman. Though I am sure I didn’t hit him hard enough to do any permanent damage, he still isn’t coming around.

  What if I’m wrong? What if I’ve shattered his jaw? What if I broke his nose and bits of his skull rammed into his brain?

  I feel like total shit as I stand there, one arm wrapped around my middle.

  The doorman is quickly called away, and I am now starting to realize from the efficient way that he’s dealing with the rest of the security and the fact he offered me a ride in a company car without John’s explicit permission, that he is more than a doorman. In fact, from the exact way he holds himself and others refer to him, it quickly becomes apparent that he is head of security.

  Why John Rowley would have his head of security as a doorman, I don’t know. And how that doorman hadn’t picked up on the gun is another important question.

  The doorman – whose name turns out to be Antonio Ferrari – tells me to stay exactly where I am as he goes to deal with something behind the counter.

  I stand there, in precisely the same spot I stopped after John pulled me to my feet, with one arm hooked loosely around my middle, the other kind of drooped by my side.

  I shiver. I’m not cold. Not physically, at least. Mentally, I’m frozen. Though dealing with my new world is hard on ordinary days, I somehow can’t shake the feeling that I’ll never have an ordinary day again.

  I suddenly feel someone furl a jacket around my shoulders.

  It’s John. As I dart my head over my shoulder, I realize he’s walked up beside me without me even noticing.

  Which is the second time that’s happened.

  He shoots me a grim and yet kind of warm smile. “I didn’t get the chance to thank you. So thank you,” he says as he makes the kind of direct eye contact that few people do. You see, few people have the guts to stare at somebody with that much attention.

  It seems John Rowley does. And though he only stares at me for a few seconds until he glances down at the gunman, that flickering moment of attention is like a gateway drug. I want him to stare at me again, this time for longer. Hell, I don’t want him to ever look away.

  I’m not... kidding – some part of me wants to be noticed by this man. I’m seriously not talking about some girly crush on the country’s most eligible bachelor, either. It’s something much, much deeper than that. It has to do with my secret – my skills. I just... I get this urge to walk up to him, to allow magic to spread over my fingers, and to wave my hands in his face until he realizes what I am.

  I shiver again, though I’m not cold, and I bring my arms up, hook them on the lapels of his jacket, and hug it close.

  Though it seems John wants to talk to me, and a few times he shifts my way and opens his mouth, he’s always distracted. And soon enough, the police are called. I’m whisked to a security office at the back of the building and asked to sign a witness report and to hand over my details. Then, true to his word, Antonio arranges a car. Before I know it, I’m being dropped off in front of my work.

  I don’t have my uniform. I called in sick to work today, after all. But I’d lied to Ferrari to try to get out of there, and after he’d arranged the car, I hadn’t had the heart to point out I didn’t intend to head to work.

  But as the car drops me off in front of the electronics store I work for, there’s no backing out.

  I walk around the front of the car and nod to the driver as he winds his window down.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  The guy fumbles with something in his pocket and pulls out a card, handing it to me. “This is Security Officer Ferrari’s card,” the guy explains quickly.

  “Ah, thank you,” I manage, blinking at it in surprise.

  “You can call him when you’re done with the jacket. And if you need any help,” he adds.

  I blink hard. The second comment throws me so much that, for a second, I forget I’m still wearing John Rowley’s jacket.

  I glance down at the jacket around my shoulders, and I blink hard. I promptly unhook it from around my arms. “Here, take it now—”

  The guy shakes his head. “You look rattled, ma’am. I’m under orders to let you keep it for now. Get inside, get warm, and you can arrange to return it later. And don’t forget, call Ferrari if you have any issues,” he adds.

  I frown. “Ah, sorry – I don’t understand. I was under the impression that the police would call me if they required a more detailed witness report, but apart from that, this incident is now over.”

  The guy... he shoots me a look. One I don’t understand. “Antonio just wants you to call if you have any trouble, got it?”

  I don’t know how to respond, so I give a small nod.

  Apparently, that’s all the guy needs, and with a brief wave, he drives off, leaving me there on the pavement in total shock.

  What the hell just happened?

  Okay, so I stopped an attack. Okay, so I have Rowley’s jacket, but why would Ferrari, the Head of Security, want me to call him if I have any issues?

  A... specific kind of feeling starts to well in my stomach. One I can’t ignore as I turn on my foot and head down the street.

  That would be when the door to the store opens, and out pops my friend, Shirley.

  “Kara, is that you?” Shirley says, obviously recognizing me as she practically unhinges her jaw and stares from me to the departing car. “What are you doing jumping out of a Rowley car?”

  I open my mouth to ask how the hell she knows that car belongs to John, then I realize it has named number plates. Also, it is a freaking Rolls Royce.

  I make a face.

  Instantly Shirley looks from that face then down to the expensive suit jacket I’m wearing.

  “Why are you in a man’s jacket? A seriously expensive man’s jacket. It’s been a long time since I worked in the fashion industry,” Shirley says as she finally shoves away from the doorway, strides over, and plucks up one of the loose sleeves of the jacket, “but that’s Gucci. That jacket’s like worth... I dunno, $20,000. What the hell are you doing wearing it?”

  I blanch at the fact the jacket alone is worth $20,000 – about as much as I make in half a year.

  Shirley sees my expression and arches an eyebrow. “What the hell happened to you this morning? You called in sick. Y
ou look okay to me,” she adds.

  If I look okay to Shirley, then she really needs to update her definition of what okay looks like. Because I can feel that most of the blood has drained from my cheeks.

  I’m pale, sallow, and feel utterly, gut-wrenchingly shocked.

  “Go on, tell me what happened?” Shirley insists as she continues to inspect the sleeve of Rowley’s jacket.

  I grit my teeth together as if I’m trying to lock my jaw closed.

  Shirley finally looks up and appears to see my exact expression. A large frown marks her lips as she ticks her head to the side and her strawberry blond hair rustles over her shoulder. “You look pretty bad. What happened?”

  I finally react. “I was just involved... in a little incident,” I manage. Maybe it’s stupid to admit this – though I’ve hardly told her anything yet. But it’s probably stupid not to admit it. It will reach the press – even if it hasn’t already. Though I imagine John Rowley has considerable powers when it comes to hushing up news, there’s no way he’ll be able to quiet the tourists who were in the building when the gunman attacked. The attack is probably already all over social media.

  Shirley looks alarmed now, her eyes opening wide. “What do you mean?”

  I open my mouth but shake my head. “I don’t really want to talk about it. I just... I went to... deliver something to someone at Rowley Tower this morning, and a gunman walked in,” I admit.

  Shirley pales in a snap. “Oh my God,” she says breathlessly. “What happened? Are you all right? You poor thing.” Shirley has a habit of treating me like I’m a fragile little kid. She’s taller than me, stockier than me, too, and she has absolutely no idea that with a single finger, I can probably kill her. But that’s not the point. I don’t begrudge her at all as she leans in, locks her warm hands on my shoulders, and rubs them up and down. “Let’s get you around back,” she says quickly and with a motherly tone as she flattens a hand on my back and leads me around the side of the store.

  For some reason, I find myself glancing over my shoulder, almost as if I expect Rowley’s car to come back. There’s no reason for the car to come back – it was pretty clear that the driver had other things to do. Plus, the ball is now in my court. When I’m ready to give John Rowley his jacket back, all I have to do is call Antonio.